


Paradise Within

by karuvapatta



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Minor Character Death, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-01 00:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: Seven months after they failed to prevent the Apocalypse, Aziraphale returns to London to search for Crowley.





	1. Chapter 1

London was in ruins.

Aziraphale stepped over the debris of what once had been Soho. His bookshop was still there, somewhere. Not that it mattered – when the bombs fell, very little mattered anymore.

Still he felt a twinge of longing, and then an overwhelming surge of shame. He shouldn’t be mourning books while so many lives had been lost. Human, angel, demon… their bodies weren’t easy to tell apart, and wasn’t that a deeply philosophical thought?

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel descended on his magnificent wings, positively glowing. “There you are. Heard you took back London.”

“I did,” Aziraphale said hollowly.

“Commendable, but you could devote your energy to bigger targets,” Gabriel said. “Sandalphon is almost ready to storm the gates of Hell.”

“That’s the third time he’s going to try,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t need to be there to see him fail.”

The Archangel’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. He forced himself to meet his steely purple gaze.

“We must not lose hope,” Gabriel said. It was a threat, not an encouragement, and Aziraphale acknowledged it as such with a stiff nod. “After all!” Gabriel smiled rapturously. “We have God on our side!”

Aziraphale did not reply. Not anymore.

“There are still pockets of resistance,” he said, scanning the debris, the tendrils of smoke. “I will deal with them myself.”

For the briefest moment, Gabriel’s grip tightened. He would be admonished, Aziraphale thought numbly. For disobeying orders, for sowing discord, for his abysmal performance in the battlefield. Maybe Gabriel would demote him. Maybe he would force him to march in the front row during Sandalphon’s assault on Hell, hoping the Hellfire traps the demons invariably set would destroy him utterly, like they had done to so many careless angels thus far.

Gabriel’s smile returned. “Every little bit helps,” he said, leaving no doubt as to how much he thought Aziraphale was capable of contributing. “Await your orders, Aziraphale. We may yet need you on the front lines.”

“Always,” Aziraphale said.

The Archangel vanished. Aziraphale set out to work.

It was easy enough to forget that this place had ever been London. Still, and silent, and utterly dark; the sky had been obscured by ash and dust for weeks now. The winter would soon be upon them. For now, there was still some greenery to be found away from human dwellings, but if the radiation hadn’t poisoned it yet, the lack of sunlight would finish the job.

And yet. _And yet._

He fancied he could still recognize the streets they used to drive on, the buildings they used to visit. Parks, restaurants, theatres, art galleries, concert halls… he tried to place them in the correct positions as he walked, but with every passing day, the past seemed less and less real.

Lost in thoughts, Aziraphale walked straight into a trap.

He flinched as something akin to an electrical current ran up his legs, freezing them in place. Immediately he reached for his sword and spun around in a circle, scanning the debris for his assailant.

He could _hear them_. Their footsteps on the gravel, their heavy breathing; and he continued looking around, letting them believe they could creep up on him, until they stupidly walked within range of his blade.

“Aaah!”

The voice was too high, too weak; all at once, Aziraphale came face to face with a frightened human child, the tip of his sword hanging an inch from the small, terrified face.

“No, no,” he said, lowering his weapon. “No, please. This is a mistake—”

“Like hell it is!” said another voice, this time from behind him.

“We got you now,” said the third, female one. “You can’t step out of the circle! You are _trapped_!”

Aziraphale looked at his feet. The circle had been drawn in chalk on the torn up pavement. He was a fool not to have noticed it.

“Good effort,” he said, sighing. “But your calligraphy needs work. You misspelled ‘veritatis’.”

Muffled voices followed.

“See? I _told you_—”

“Shut up, I did it the exact same way—”

“No, _you shut up_—he’s bluffing, okay? I know he’s bluffing.”

“No, what if he isn’t, this is _stupid_, let’s just _go already_—”

“I’m putting my sword down!” Aziraphale said calmly. “See?” He bent his knees and lowered the weapon to the ground. Then he straightened, slow and deliberate, hands in the air. “I’m unarmed.”

He turned around to look at the assailants. There were three of them: two boys and a girl in a red coat. They looked dreadful, malnourished and dishevelled, but Aziraphale’s heart soared. They were children, human children; London wasn’t as dead as it seemed.

“Great,” the girl said. “That’s how we like ‘em.”

She was holding a sword in one hand and a burning branch in the other.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “That’s Hellfire, isn’t it?”

“Damn right it is!” one of the boys grinned maliciously. “Your kind can’t stand it, can they? Bloody stupid angels!”

The girl didn’t wave the branch in an attempt at intimidation. She stood still, firm on her feet, her breathing even, chillingly at ease with weapon in her hand.

“Is it just you three?” he asked.

The smallest boy scoffed, “No, there’s _dozens more_—”

“_Don’t tell him, you idiot!”_

He shifted guiltily. “What? What! He’s not telling anyone anyway, is he? Because we’re, uh… going to…”

His voice trailed off, gaze shifting from the burning branch to Aziraphale. The other boy looked equally uncomfortable. For all her bravado, the girl hadn’t moved, either.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Aziraphale said gently.

“Then what _are _you doing here?” the tall, lanky boy demanded. He was holding a sword, too, but hadn’t been taking a very good care of it; the edge was blunted, the handle too worn out to offer proper grip. And it was way too heavy for him.

Come to think of it, the girl also wouldn’t be able to swing that sword of hers one-handed. Aziraphale wondered if she knew that.

“Remembering,” he replied. “I used to live here.”

“Bullshit,” the tall boy said.

“Mind your language,” Aziraphale said, because he felt that he had to. Then he turned his attention downwards, to the circle. “Who taught you how to draw them? Because the wording is rather awkward, and the pentagram is—”

“No one did,” someone said.

Aziraphale’s voice froze in his throat. He didn’t turn; no, he couldn’t bear to. For one single, glorious moment, he could almost _believe_. But to turn around would be to find out he was wrong, that he was foolish to hope, that—

“They watched me do it and thought it was easy,” the voice went on. “Well? What did I _say_?”

“Sorry, Mr. Anthony,” said the small, bespectacled boy. “We thought—”

“Thought? Thought what!” And it was his voice, Crowley’s voice; and, oh, the celestial harmonies had never sounded half as sweetly to Aziraphale’s ears. “It’s wonky! The cracks go through it! If he wanted to, you lot would be dead already!”

“I don’t trust him,” the girl said, the burning branch still at the ready.

“Good,” Crowley said. “You shouldn’t.”

He stepped into Aziraphale’s field of vision.

“Oh,” he said. “_Crowley_.”

Aziraphale drank in the sight of his face, the utterly redundant sunglasses, the black jacket; his hair, growing out again now that there was no one left to style it; _everything_ about him, so familiar, _six thousand years _and he wasn’t yet tired of seeing him. _Six thousand years._

Seven months since the war began. _Seven months _that had almost managed to render the previous six millennia utterly meaningless. Seven long, dull, lonely months…

But no more.

“You’re alive,” he said. A sentiment equal parts pointless and lovely.

Yet – his joy appeared one-sided. Crowley didn’t smile or acknowledge him in any way. But Aziraphale could feel his gaze – on the sword at his feet, his Heavenly armour, the wings folded behind his back.

“Do you know him, Mr. Anthony?” the girl asked warily.

“I thought I did,” Crowley said, and, dear Lord, Hellfire would be preferable to hearing him say that.

“We should talk,” Aziraphale said. “Please.”

_I’ll beg if you want me to_, he thought wildly. _Say something_. _Please_.

For a long, torturous moment, Crowley didn’t. Then he set his mouth in a thin, angry line, and nodded sharply.

“Bugger off, the three of you,” he said. “Back to the base. And don’t let me catch you outside again.”

“You won’t catch us,” the tall kid mumbled.

Off they went: they were small enough to fit through the piles of rubble, and Aziraphale guessed they went underground. The Piccadilly Circus would have been somewhere around here, he reckoned. It was hard to say anymore.

Once they were alone, Aziraphale said: “We should get off the street. Gabriel might still be somewhere around.”

Crowley swore.

“I was hoping he would be dead by now,” he said. “Glorious victory for Hell _and _Heaven, taking that bastard out.”

Aziraphale cast a fearful look at the clouds. There was an aerial battle going on, but too far above the tar-like clouds for anyone to see or hear them.

Crowley must have noticed his gaze.

“Yeah, let’s hide,” he said coolly. “Can’t have your friends see you talk to a demon without smiting them on sight, right?” he nudged the sword Aziraphale had dropped, meaningfully. “Go on. Pick it up. We can go a few rounds to clear your bloody conscience.”

“I will not fight you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Not now, not ever.”

For a moment, Crowley’s expression changed. The frown between his eyebrows ceased, the hard line of his mouth softened; Aziraphale desperately wished he could see his eyes. But then the moment passed and Crowley was, once again, feigning indifference.

“Sure, whatever,” he said.

He turned abruptly and slithered across the rubble. Aziraphale picked up the sword, sheathed it, and then moved to follow. It was much harder for him to squeeze through the narrow gaps between shards of concrete. Crowley was taller, but Aziraphale had ever been softer around the edges. He also had his wings to account for, which made matters even worse.

Somehow, he managed to squeeze himself after Crowley into a marginally more open space. It had walls and roof for protection but continued to offer a decent view of the street. Perfect for spying from.

There was even a chair, torn and ragged like everything else around them. Crowley collapsed into it, leaving Aziraphale to find a marginally more comfortable piece of concrete to perch on.

“I thought you were dead,” he said quietly, and then couldn’t speak afterwards. It was _done_, it was _over_, Crowley was _here_. Whether he hated Aziraphale or not was immaterial.

“Nope,” Crowley said.

“But you didn’t seem surprised to see me,” Aziraphale hazarded.

Crowley shrugged. He was looking at the wall, above and to the right of where Aziraphale was actually sitting. As if he couldn’t bear the sight of him.

“Saw you a couple of months ago,” he said. “On the battlefield. You seemed busy.”

Aziraphale shut his eyes but couldn’t shield himself from the onslaught of memories. He had fought and killed and—for what? A righteous cause he barely even believed in? A silent God? Angels who thought nothing of him?

“What does it matter?” he asked, finally giving voice to the thoughts that had been rattling around his brain for months. “The world has already ended. _Your _side wanted the damn war to happen.”

“Oh, because your lot is so bloody innocent!” Crowley snarled. “Tell me, angel, what did the Almighty say when you asked him to stop it? Because you were so sure this would work! I’m dying to know how that conversation went!” He fell back in the chair and continued in a muffled, pained voice. “I came to find you afterwards, y’know? Didn’t go to Alpha Centauri. Couldn’t. But your bookshop was on fire and you weren’t there. I thought—”

“You thought I was gone,” Aziraphale said, a surge of warmth and affection coursing through him. “Oh, _Crowley_. I am so sorry.”

He yearned to ease the pain he could sense Crowley was in, but was unsure how his touch would be received. A lot of time had passed; a lot had happened. They had been friends once, but it would be awfully presumptuous of him to assume that was still the case.

“Your side hasn’t been after you?” he asked.

“They are,” Crowley said. “Hence the hiding.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, and then frowned. “How did you avoid detection, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Crowley stared at him, contemplating whether to answer or not.

“In one way or another, I’ve avoided them for millennia,” he said. “Even easier now that they are actually busy.”

He bent down and reached for something hidden below his chair. Aziraphale couldn’t help a fond smile when it turned out to be a bottle of wine.

“One of my last ones,” Crowley said. “Had to put it here in case the kids find it. So!” He popped the bottle open and took a long sip, “What have you been up to? Besides slaughtering demons and humans for your noble cause?”

“Skirting duty, mostly,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley paused with the bottle at his lips.

“Don’t,” he said, cold and threatening. “Don’t start telling me how wearing that uniform was really, _really _hard for you—”

“Losing you was hard,” Aziraphale interrupted him. “After that, it was simply the matter of having nowhere else to go. I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” he added harshly. “And I have no intention of doing it again.” He gave Crowley a long look, trying to discern his reaction. He then continued in a quieter, softer voice: “You can believe me or not, my dear. Just know that I’m very happy to see you.”

Crowley looked like he might say something, but opted not to. The bottle hang loosely between his long, slender fingers. Then he extended it in Aziraphale’s direction, never quite meeting his gaze.

“Go on,” he said. “’S not a bad vintage. And you’re not likely to find any better, ever again.”

Their world was in ruins, but they might let themselves forget that. Aziraphale leaned over and took the bottle, their hands coming into a brief contact. Then he put his lips where Crowley’s had been a short while ago, and imagined he could still feel their imprint; an electrifying feeling, almost as real as the sharp flavour of dry red on his tongue.

“What about those kids?” he asked, taking another long sip and handing the bottle back to Crowley. “Where did you find them? How are they alive?”

Crowley sighed. “Yeah, that’s actually a slight issue you might be able to help me with.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Come on.”

They finished off the wine on their way, passing it back and forth. Aziraphale would have preferred to savour the occasion, maybe catch a glimpse of Crowley’s eyes, one of his rare smiles; but that would be too much to ask for, under the circumstances.

As he guessed, Crowley led them underground, to what once had been the Piccadilly Circus station. Some work had been done to keep the roof from caving down; he could see tattered posters, an empty, broken vending machine, the ever-present grime, tons of rubbish on the floor.

Crowley hopped over the metal gate and hurried down the escalator in complete darkness. Aziraphale’s night vision wasn’t as good as a demon’s so he followed a little more cautiously, his wings folded tight in the cramped space.

Down and down they went. Eventually, he caught a glimpse of flickering light in the darkness, and the sound of hushed voices.

“Halt!” said a child, pointing a flashlight beam at their faces, effectively blinding them. “Who goes there?”

“Just me,” Crowley said. “And guest. Put that thing down, will you?”

There was a small pause. Then the voice said, suspiciously: “Brother Francis?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Warlock?”

He was rather surprised at what the boy did next, which was to throw his arms around him and squeeze him tight.

“Nanny said you were dead,” Warlock said reproachfully.

“_I _never said that,” Crowley protested. “I just suggested it was a real possibility.”

“Yeah, sure,” Warlock said. He let go of Aziraphale’s midsection and took a hasty step back, ashamed of his outbursts. Then, in a different tone of voice, he asked: “I don’t suppose—mum and dad…?”

The silence went on too long. Warlock shook his head and said numbly: “Right. Anyway. Come on in.”

Aziraphale dragged his feet. He didn’t need angelic senses to feel the misery around him, but they exacerbated the already suffocating aura. The children were gathered in small groups; they had a couple of flashlights between them. In the flickering lights Aziraphale noticed a row of bedrolls by the wall, a pile of provisions, few odd items scattered around. The air was stale, but the ventilation system seemed to function because it remained breathable.

“How long?” he asked softly.

Crowley sighed. “Since the bombs started falling. I was drunk before that.” He pulled himself together. “Come this way, angel.”

_Angel_. It had been so long since Aziraphale heard that word from Crowley’s lips. He had never been quite sure if Crowley said in derision, resignation, or endearment, but it settled something within him. A deep ache that had been gnawing at him for months.

Not all the children were up and about. Aziraphale saw a couple of them huddled beneath the blankets, alive but—but.

They were asleep. He supposed it was a kindness on Crowley’s part.

“I’m not great at healing,” Crowley said in a low, tight voice. “Demons generally aren’t. It works as long as I imagine they’re doing fine, but—well, let’s just say it’s been hard to imagine things lately.”

Aziraphale searched for his hand in the dark and gave it a brief squeeze. Then he moved forward and began to murmur soothing, gentle words, working his God-given power in ways that, for the first time in forever, felt exactly _right_.

It was no less than a miracle. The children stirred, finally coming awake, not a single mark on them.

“Thanks,” Crowley murmured. “It’s the radiation, right? I can occasionally handle a broken bone, but the radiation…”

Aziraphale said hollowly: “A nuclear war, yes. I’m afraid that was my people’s idea.”

“Let’s hope Gabriel doesn’t reprimand you on this,” Crowley said, trying for a lighter tone.

“Fuck Gabriel,” Aziraphale said.

A chuckle escaped Crowley’s lips, surprising them both.

“All right. Now I believe you,” he said.

“Who’s Gabriel?” asked one of the kids, blinking at them owlishly.

“No one important,” Crowley said. “And be sure to tell him that if you ever see him. You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” the girl replied. “A bit hungry.”

Crowley nodded at the pile of provisions. “There’s some food left, I think. But we should raid another supermarket soon. Unless the Them went and did that already.”

“The who?” Aziraphale asked.

“The Them,” Crowley said. “You’ve met Them. They ambushed you.”

“That’s right!” the three kids from before materialized out of darkness and stared suspiciously at Aziraphale. “Wait, what’s he doing here?”

“Helping, actually,” Crowley said.

“But he’s one of _them_,” the tall boy said. “The _angels_.”

“That may no longer be the case,” Aziraphale said. “If that helps.”

He had never been very good with children, and even now felt awkward talking to them. Especially as the girl raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Luckily, she didn’t have the Hellfire branch on her to test that theory.

“Erm,” Aziraphale said, unnerved.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale’s back, just below his wings. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t dare ask where. In truth, he cared little for their destination, so long as Crowley guided him there. The climbed down onto the tracks and followed the Bakerloo line south-east, in the direction of the river.

After several minutes, they assumed they were out of the children’s earshot.

“Are you planning to leave the city?” he asked into the unnerving silence. There was nothing but the sound of their footsteps and the total darkness. His voice echoed down the tunnel, so he lowered it to a whisper.

“I was going to ask you that,” Crowley answered. “Didn’t want the kids to overhear. So?” He halted. “Is there anywhere left to go?”

Very slowly, Aziraphale shook his head. Then he realized Crowley might not have been able to see the subtle movement.

“I’m afraid not,” he said softly. “There are still human survivors in remote places, but—”

His voice trailed off.

“I am so sorry, Crowley,” he said.

He reached out and closed his hand around Crowley’s shoulder, feeling the defined bones, the way his chest expanded and deflated on every uneasy breath.

“I should have gone to Alpha Centauri,” Crowley said. “Damn. _Damn_. I really—should have—” his voice hitched; his shoulders shook. Aziraphale stepped closer and caught the demon’s other arm, unfolding his wings just enough to wrap them around Crowley and himself.

It didn’t matter much, under the circumstances. And yet he found some comfort in the way Crowley clung to him, under the shield of his feathers.

“I found Warlock one day,” Crowley murmured, his hot, ragged breath on the skin of Aziraphale’s neck. “And then there were others. Other kids. And I just couldn’t leave them.” He shifted even closer. “Would have been easier if I never even tried to help.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply.

“What about you?” Crowley asked.

“Gabriel knows I’m in London,” Aziraphale said. “He will still expect regular reports but Heaven is way too busy to read them.” He ran his fingers over the nape of Crowley’s neck, the loose strands of his hair, the back of his head. “For now, I think we should make sure the forces of Hell don’t succeed in taking back London.”

“And then what?” Crowley asked in a hollow voice.

That was the question, wasn’t it? The only question that truly mattered anymore.

But Aziraphale didn’t have an answer.


	2. Chapter 2

There were three dozen children hiding with Crowley in the London Underground tunnels. The youngest was a girl of six, who didn’t fully understand what was going on, and the oldest were a pair of fourteen year-olds, who thought they did. They were initially apprehensive about Aziraphale, for which he couldn’t blame them. Trust took time to grow organically (about six thousand years, in Aziraphale’s experience) and time was something they did not have an abundance of.

A couple of hours after his arrival, Warlock sought them out as they were tending to a young boy’s injury. He was pale and anxious – a massive departure from the self-absorbed, overly cocky child he could sometimes be. Back before all of their lives fell apart.

“Nanny! Someone’s outside,” Warlock said in an urgent whisper. “Near the entrance. We barricaded it, but—”

“Is there another exit?” Aziraphale asked.

“An emergency exit a couple of hundred yards, if you head for Green Park,” Crowley said.

“Good,” Aziraphale said. “Stay here.”

“Angel, wait—” Crowley began.

“If it’s angels, I have a good excuse to be here,” Aziraphale said calmly. “If it’s demons, I have a sword. It’ll be fine, my dear.”

He followed the appropriate tunnel until he found the door, and the staircase, which lead him to the pile of rubble that had once been a building. And even though the sun didn’t reach the ground anymore, he found himself momentarily blinded even by the meagre light outside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

Six figures were prowling down the street, in dirty, tattered clothes, with visible open wounds and malicious grins. Demons, probably, although it was getting harder and harder to tell the longer the War went on.

“You sure he’s here?” the first one asked.

“Saw him with my own eyes,” said another. “The Archangel Gabriel. Tell you what, we kill him, and Lord Beelzebub will finally deploy us somewhere more interesting.”

Aziraphale silently drew his sword and made his careful way through the rubble. They hadn’t spotted him yet. Attacking from behind would only add to the advantage—

He heard a low growl and had just enough time to curse his own stupidity.

The Hellhound leapt at him, its maw wide-open, filled with razor-sharp teeth and fiery sparks. Aziraphale fell to his knees and rolled to the side, only barely avoiding getting gored by the creature.

“Oh, will you look at that!”

The six demons gathered around him in a loose circle, leaving enough space for the Hellhound to charge through. For now it remained some distance away, its eyes glowing Hellish red; an ominous presence in the darkness.

“Poor, lost angel,” the demon tutted. “Where’s the rest of your troop?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said.

“Damn shame, that,” another said. “Six on one isn’t very _fair_, is it?”

They all laughed. Aziraphale permitted himself a small smile.

“Alas, we are at war,” Aziraphale said. “Nothing about it seems very fair to me, to be honest.”

Their weapon were varied, some built more for menace than practicality. Aziraphale took careful note of each and every one of them. Then, very slowly, he started to get up.

“No,” the leader snarled, approaching quickly. He placed his boot on Aziraphale’s chest and pushed down. “Stay where you are, little angel. We haven’t said you can get up yet, have we?”

“Terribly sorry about that,” Aziraphale said.

Then he drove his hidden knife in the demon’s foot. The blade wasn’t properly Heaven-made (Heaven being above such underhanded tactics), but it drew blood, shattered bone, and made the demon lose his balance and stumble backwards.

“You—”

Aziraphale was on his knees in an instant, sword in hand. He slashed it upwards, the tip of the blade cutting through the demon’s body, from hip to opposite shoulder.

This _was _a Heavenly weapon. It ripped through flesh and left a wound that could not be healed; black blood poured from the deep gash.

The Hellhound _leapt_. As it descended upon him, Aziraphale drew his sword deep into the beast’s maw. The teeth managed to graze his right arm, leaving deep grooves in the vambrace, but the body around them dissolved into a burning puddle before they could do any actual damage.

He was at his feet when the remaining five decided to attack all at once. They overwhelmed him, but got in each other’s way constantly; Aziraphale focused on deflecting any blow headed his way and let the ensuing chaos take care of the rest.

One was accidentally bludgeoned with his companion’s spiked flail. Aziraphale finished him off before he fell to the ground. The other stumbled on a piece of rubble, and crashed into his fellow demon. The fourth chose that moment to counterattack, but Aziraphale fought him off easily, breaking through his defences and slashing his neck wide open. The fifth one had a sword, which bounced off Aziraphale’s breastplate, momentarily taking his breath away. He managed to knock it down, shoving the blade inside a crack in concrete. By the time the demon could manage to wrestle it away, Aziraphale had cut his head off.

That left only two. They tried to run; he didn’t let them.

He stood alone amongst the carnage, panting heavily. Then he took a few, hesitant steps and wiped the sweat from his brow. Lord, he really _had_ gone soft—this had once been his purpose, what he had been created for—

He wiped the gore from his blade and sheathed it. Then, after some deliberation, he caught the sword still stuck in stone and tugged at it until the ground relented. He couldn’t help a hiss as the handle made contact with his unexposed skin, burning it, and pulled his gloves further down his wrists before wrestling it free. So this was a proper weapon, then, forged in Hellfire in the deepest pits of Hell. A bit longer than he was used to, but he got the feel of it after a few experimental swings.

Only then did he notice his audience.

“You can fight!” the little girl said, a gleam in her eyes. “Can you teach me?”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale said.

“Come on,” she took her own sword and raised it. “I need to learn.”

“I will not teach a child to kill,” Aziraphale said. “Out of the question.”

As he moved to leave the building, the girl blocked his way. She had the weapon pointed at his chest. The tip of it wobbled as she struggled to hold it outstretched in one arm.

“There’s no one else,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I have to! Who else will protect Brian and Wensleydale?”

“I’ve made that mistake before,” he said, as gently as possible.

Yes, he had given the flaming sword to Adam, so that he could protect his wife and unborn child. And it had likely saved them all; sometimes he wondered if the Almighty had foreseen that. But then he had seen the very same sword in the hands of War. Only then did he realize the true gift he had bestowed upon humanity.

The girl hadn’t moved.

“Young lady—”

“Pepper,” she said sharply. “My name’s Pepper. And don’t call me a _lady_.” She scoffed. “Is _that _why you won’t teach me? Because I’m a _girl_? That’s pure sexism, is what it is!”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, nonplussed. “It’s because you’re a _child_.”

“I’m almost twelve,” Pepper grumbled. “And you’re not leaving here until you agree to teach me!”

Her arm was giving out so she wrapped her other hand around the handle of the sword. Where did she even get one? It was ordinary metal, neither Heaven nor Hell in origin. But, he supposed, she might have found it somewhere around London. Some people still collected outdated weaponry and she seemed like the sort of person who wouldn’t want to face the Apocalypse empty-handed.

Aziraphale took his own blade out of its sheath. Pepper’s eyes widened; she tried to brace herself and block his blow, but he knocked the sword easily out of her hands.

It clattered onto the rubble, alerting any demon that might have missed the earlier sounds of battle. Pepper held her wrist, obviously in pain, but didn’t utter a single word of complaint and continued to stare him straight in the eyes.

“Take it,” Aziraphale said calmly. “We need to get back underground.”

He turned his back on her. One, two, three steps; she moved quietly. Still, he spun around with enough time to parry her blow, delivered with more anger than forethought.

Four, five; the sword vibrated in her arm. She could barely hold it up. Again it fell, and Pepper jumped back, instead reaching for one of the weapons the demons had dropped: a spiked mace, even heavier and less suited for her.

“This isn’t going to help,” Aziraphale pointed out. “I’m stronger than you.”

“So what?” Pepper glared, swinging the mace around. “_Everyone _I’m likely to fight will be stronger than me.”

Aziraphale’s heart ached with sympathy. “Yes,” he said. “This isn’t very fair.”

He looked down at the smouldering remains of demonic flesh. It was unlikely they came to London alone. The city was big enough for several troops to get lost in, but someone was bound to notice their disappearance before long. Besides, Heaven could surveil them from above, if they so chose.

“Get your sword,” he said. “We can continue this underground.”

It didn’t escape his attention that she picked up most of the weapons, except that ridiculous flail. Slowly, carefully, they made their way back to underground tunnels, keeping an eye out for other signs of demonic activity.

The only demon they encountered was Crowley, who didn’t look very pleased.

“Seriously, why do I even bother,” he said, glaring at Pepper.

She stuck her tongue out at him. Crowley hissed in response, and Crowley’s hissing was a sight to behold.

“Demons,” Aziraphale told him in a low voice as the girl went to re-join her friends. “They shan’t be bothering us any longer.”

Crowley gave him a strange look. “S’good. I suppose.” He noticed the Hellfire sword Aziraphale had brought with him. “And that’s—what? In case you encounter angels next?”

Aziraphale held his gaze. “Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Crowley repeated, hollow. “I see.”

“You’ve mentioned a supply run?” Aziraphale asked instead of dwelling on the subject.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Food, batteries, that sort of stuff. The kids should have them, in case something happens to you or me. Or we get separated.”

“Good thinking,” Aziraphale said. Neither of them added that the kids would not survive for very long without supernatural assistance. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Now, if you will excuse me. Pepper and I have something to discuss.”

***

It would take a minor miracle to muffle the sounds of clashing swords, so they picked up wooden sticks for now. Another issue was the light - Pepper could hardly see what she was doing with her feet, so he reluctantly conjured a glowing orb. She then attacked him with wild ferocity, quickly tiring herself out. Luckily, she listened when Aziraphale corrected her posture and technique, and accepted his criticism with only the mildest grumbling.

Other kids gathered to watch and cheer Pepper on. They had to be pretty starved for entertainment down here.

Pepper lowered her weapon, panting, tremors running down her right arm.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why can’t I get past your defences? What is it I’m doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said. “You need more practice. That’s all.”

Practice, and quite extraordinary amounts of luck. Perhaps a better weapon – she risked injury, swinging that sword of hers for too long. It was quite fortunate Aziraphale could heal her if that happened, but Crowley had been right. They might not always be here to miracle the children out of trouble.

“Enough for today,” he said. “You kids should get some sleep.”

It shocked him how readily they obeyed his command. They were in their bedrolls soon, huddled together for warmth, some carrying on their conversation in – what they must have thought of as – discreet whispers.

Crowley was somewhere in the darkness, dangling his legs from the edge of the platform over the unused tracks and staring at the poster on the other side. It was from a movie, Aziraphale dimly recalled. He had never cared much for movies. Now he couldn’t help wondering if Crowley had seen that one in particular.

But he didn’t ask. It was enough to sit next to him, in darkness and silence; enough to know he was there, right beside him, close enough to touch if only Aziraphale could find the courage to.

***

In the morning, they took the Them and Warlock in search of a grocery store that was within walking distance and hadn’t been raided yet. Neither angels nor demons needed supplies, and there weren’t many human survivors to compete with – and if they encountered any, they’d likely welcome them in. It was, overall, a trouble-free venture, even if the stench of rotten food twisted Aziraphale’s stomach. Without electricity, the fridges couldn’t keep it cold. But there were cans and packages of highly-processed products that he wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot-pole. For all their deficiencies, however, they kept well.

The children disappeared between the isles while Aziraphale remained near the entrance, just in case. Meanwhile, Crowley was desperately searching for more alcohol.

“Come onnnn,” he said. “Don’t fail me _now_…”

He froze suddenly, head whipping up, and sniffed the air.

“Oh,” he said. “Damn.”

Aziraphale was already unsheathing his sword.

“Traitor,” a demon hissed, black eyes on Crowley’s face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh,” Crowley said, unenthusiastically. “Hi, guys.” He glanced at Aziraphale. “Will you believe me when I say I took this angel prisoner?”

The demons growled.

“No, didn’t think so,” Crowley said. “But, hey—”

Aziraphale moved before he could finish. It didn’t give him much, but even the couple of seconds would make a difference. The first demon screeched, their flesh melting around the blade of Aziraphale’s sword. There were three others, pointing their weapons at him, but Aziraphale only noticed the fourth one, who stalked towards Crowley with vengeance in his eyes, heedless of the fate that befell his comrade.

He couldn’t permanently kill Crowley, but he could incapacitate him or torture him, and that alone was unacceptable. Aziraphale stabbed him in the back, his mind on fire, and then whipped around to defend himself from an oncoming attack.

They came from the street; he was reasonably sure not one of them managed to make their way further into the store, where the children were. And they were _better_ than the ones yesterday. He caught the flurry of blows but they managed to graze his cheek, his bicep. It burned like, well, Hell, but he forced the thoughts of pain from his head. And he fought; and he _killed_.

The last one fell. Aziraphale stumbled backwards, only now regaining his senses. Having Crowley and the children here disrupted his focus, made him much more reckless with his own safety. Would be prudent to keep that in mind in the future.

The silence was ringing in his ears.

“Is there more of them?” he asked.

After a pause, Crowley said: “No. I don’t think so.”

“Good. We ought to move.”

Aziraphale went into one of the alleys to steady his breathing. And, yes, to hide from them all. Unfortunately, that brought him face to face with Warlock.

“What happened to love and compassion for all living things, Brother Francis?” Warlock asked sarcastically. When he didn’t receive a satisfactory answer, his face twisted in a grimace. “You lied to me,” he said. “So did Nanny. You are both _liars_.”

“I did what I had to,” Aziraphale said. “To keep them from killing you.”

Warlock shrugged. “Either way, you’re a liar. And a—” he scrunched his forehead, deep in thought, as he tried to recall an unfamiliar word. “Hypocrite. That’s what you are.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale began, but didn’t have the heart to come up with an excuse.

Crowley cornered him afterwards, after they were in relative safety of the underground station.

“Kid is right, you know,” he said. “This war really did a number on you.”

Aziraphale shut his eyes tight and tried to calm his racing thoughts.

“I lost you once,” he said. “This won’t happen again. Not if I can help it.”

Crowley studied him carefully from behind the sunglasses. And, for a moment, dread gripped Aziraphale’s heart. What if he was no longer the person Crowley thought he knew? That Crowley considered a friend? It was well within Crowley’s right not to forgive him for the circumstances in which they had parted; for Aziraphale’s thoughtless, cruel rejection. For the moment of doubt.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said softly. “I’m very sorry, my dear. I never thought it would come to—_this_. If only the Almighty had deigned to speak to me—” He shook his head. “I was foolish to have hoped. And you knew. You tried to warn me.” He smiled at Crowley, whose expression was filled with unspeakable emotions that Aziraphale couldn’t begin to decipher, not with the sunglasses still in place. “I was so fortunate to have you by my side for so long, darling. And so very stupid not to see how fortunate I’ve been.”

Crowley swallowed.

“You keep calling me that,” he said, accusatory. When Aziraphale blinked in confusion, he clarified: “Dear. _Darling_.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s heart sank. “I—apologize. I shouldn’t have presumed.” He smiled nonetheless. “It just feels like a waste of breath not to.”

Crowley was _blushing_. His sharp cheekbones were bright red, and he stammered a little, shuffling his feet.

“You’re ridiculous, angel,” he said. “Glad to see _that _haven’t changed.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t think it ever will.” Gently, he asked: “Would you prefer it if I stopped?”

“No,” Crowley said. “S’ fine.”

Aziraphale beamed.

***

As the days wore on, the true hopelessness of their situation began to set in.

Aziraphale left occasionally to patrol the rubble, fight the occasional demon, deliver his reports to Heaven. The front lines were far away, but it didn’t matter much. The armies would get here; they would get _everywhere_. That was the whole point of this entire damn war.

Heaven or Hell would win. One of them would die. The kids wouldn’t have a chance no matter who the victor might be.

He tried to imagine it, he really did. Picture Heaven’s victory: dull, endless perfection, from now until forever. Nothing but angels and the handful of human souls deemed “worthy”. Aziraphale wasn’t even sure what “worthy” meant anymore, or if that ever even mattered. But, really, if that was to be the end, than what was the _point_? Why start the world if the sole intention was to destroy it? _Why_?

And if Heaven won, Crowley would die.

No matter how many convoluted philosophical arguments Aziraphale cooked up in his head, this was what it all boiled down to. He refused to live in a world that wouldn’t permit Crowley’s very existence; he just couldn’t. This—this was _evil_. You couldn’t achieve perfection by destroying everyone who didn’t fit in with your idea of perfection. And yet this was exactly what the angels were doing.

Hell, then. There were some nasty types over there, but at least Crowley would live. So would most artists and composers Aziraphale had befriended over the centuries. Would it be worth it, though, just to have them suffer for the rest of eternity?

It had to be better than oblivion, Aziraphale thought numbly. And then he thought about the Hellfire sword, hidden underground.

Gabriel trusted him. Rather, he never saw him as a threat, which was as close to trust as Aziraphale could expect. His death wouldn’t end the war but it might tip the scales in Hell’s favour. And if Aziraphale played this right, he could get rid of other archangels, and—and—

He sat there, frozen, their entire world dead around him, his thoughts taking a horrifying turn. And he was powerless to stop them.

“Angel?”

A hand rested on his shoulder. He could hardly feel it through the armour; just the weight, not the press of warm skin.

“You disappeared,” Crowley said. “This isn’t the best time to leave without a word, you know.”

Aziraphale shuddered. He was perched up high, on a structure that could have been the Shard once. A couple more stories, and they might be able to climb over the layer of dust and smoke and see the sky above.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “I needed time to think.”

He covered Crowley’s hand with his own. Now, finally, he could feel the warmth and texture of his skin. Each slender finger as he laced them together, briefly, only to let go.

“Sometimes it’s better not to think,” Crowley said quietly. “Not to question. Believe me,” his voice took on a bitter note. “I would know.”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“Maybe—if I were to Fall—”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley cut him off. He dropped down on the twisted metal beam, right next to Aziraphale. Aziraphale was shocked to see him remove his glasses. “That won’t solve anything. And you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

His eyes were just as Aziraphale remembered them: yellow, with vertical pupils, and so uniquely _Crowley_ he cherished every single time he got to look into them.

“We could finally be on the same side though,” Aziraphale said.

Without the sunglasses, Crowley had nothing to hide behind. And Aziraphale could see what the words had done to him: could see his shock, his pain, written clearly into every line of his face, the widened eyes.

In a soft, quiet tone, Crowley said: “I thought we already were.”

Aziraphale reached for his hand. Without thinking, he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles, shocking them both. But Crowley didn’t pull away and Aziraphale never wanted to let go.

“Of course we are, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “But we don’t really stand a chance.”

“No,” Crowley said quietly. “Nowhere on Earth left to hide, is there?”

Aziraphale looked up at the turmoil of clouds.

“No,” he said, thoughts racing. “Nowhere on Earth—”

Crowley caught his meaning.

“Alpha Centauri isn’t bad,” he said. “But—look—the kids—”

“We could take them with us,” Aziraphale said.

And Crowley _laughed_, part fondness, part exasperation.

“Yeah, would be nice,” he said.

“I mean it,” Aziraphale said. “There are billions of stars out there. Countless planets to choose from. We could find one that’s Earth-like enough for the humans to survive it.”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment.

“Oh, you’re serious,” he said. “Look, angel, humans need, uh… water, oxygen, plants… lots of stuff that can’t be found anywhere _but_ on Earth. Kind of why the Earth is special.”

“It won’t be special much longer,” Aziraphale said. He sighed.

Crowley was lost in thought. “There’s, uh. Mars. And that one around Kepler. 186? 168? One of those. Potentially habitable. And that one around Proxima Centauri, although the stellar wind pressure—” he stopped talking. “How do you even propose we take them there? And what do we do once we arrive?”

“Yes, that’s a slight issue,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley snorted.

“That’s putting it mildly,” he said.

He was opening his mouth to say something else. Instead he paused, brows furrowing together.

“Wait,” he said. “Can you feel that?”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, alarmed.

But Crowley was already tugging at his hand, beckoning him forward. He leapt from the ledge, unfolding his wings mid-flight. Aziraphale followed, that brief moment of weightlessness before the wind caught the underside of his wings feeling like an eternity. He missed the touch of Crowley’s hand, but more than anything, he dreaded whatever it was that had made him this anxious.

They flew west, over the smouldering ruins and the sludge-filled riverbed. Aziraphale kept his eyes trained on Crowley’s wings, barely noticeable against the grey, grey backdrop. But he was taking them back to Piccadilly Circus Station, nestled between Soho and St James’ Park. Aziraphale wouldn’t expect anything less.

Aziraphale spread his wings wide to slow down his fall and landed smoothly, rolling over to ease the impact with the ground, sword at the ready. It paid to be careful, after all. Crowley was ahead of him, slightly more unsteady; he hadn’t been using his wings as much as Aziraphale had in the recent months. It took him longer to find his footing again.

“What is it?” Aziraphale said, scanning their surroundings. “I can’t see anything…”

Crowley pointed.

It was a boy. He _looked_ human, but Aziraphale instinctively knew this wasn’t the case. There was a dog paddling at his side, that _looked _harmless, too.

He gripped the sword tighter.

“Adam!”

“No, go back—” Crowley hissed, but the Them were already shooting past him.

They stopped a few feet before Adam, staring at him warily.

“What are you doing here?” Brian asked.

“I came to find you,” this boy, this Adam, said uncertainly.

“Now?” Pepper snapped. “_Now_?”

“What’s going on, Adam?” Wensleydale asked in a frightened tone of voice. “Where have you been? What’s _happening_?”

Adam kicked the ground and refused to meet their gazes.

Meanwhile, Crowley was gripping Aziraphale’s arm so tightly he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore.

“It’s the Antichrist,” Crowley hissed. “He’s got the Hellhound with him. It’s over, angel. We’re over—”

As it turned out, it wasn’t.

***

After the long, tense confrontation with the Them, the Antichrist came to find Aziraphale and Crowley.

“They told me you’ve been helping them,” he said. “But you’re an angel and a demon. Shouldn’t you be fighting?”

“We don’t see much point in it, to be honest,” Aziraphale said.

The boy visibly relaxed. “Neither do I. It’s all so—stupid, really. Father says—” he bit his lip. “I shouldn’t have listened to him. At all.”

“Don’t worry, I get that. Your father can be rather persuasive,” Crowley said grimly.

“But you don’t _want _to help him, do you?” Aziraphale said. “You _want _to stop the war.”

This was the boy, then; him, and not Warlock. The child they were meant to be raising. And they were only now finding out.

“I do,” Adam said, decisive. “It’s _wrong_. I don’t care what they all say—and I don’t need to rule the world.” He cast an uncertain look at his friends. “They were scared of me,” he said. “They didn’t want to play with me anymore. But maybe—if I could fix things—”

As gently as he could, Aziraphale asked: “_Can_ you fix things, Adam? Can you undo it all?”

He thought of London as it used to be. He thought of his bookshop in Soho, and centuries of human thoughts and knowledge committed to the yellowing pages of his books. He thought of sushi, and dinners at the Ritz, and classical music.

And Crowley. Their walks in the park, the clandestine meetings. The six years they spent in close proximity, virtually under the same roof, taking turns in raising Warlock. And the humans, wonderful, complicated humans, that never failed to surprise him.

It might yet come back. It might yet be possible.

But Adam was just a small boy, and he was shaking his head.

“No,” he said, and there was so much pain in his voice, it didn’t sound like it should be coming out of the mouth of a child. “I _tried_. Over and over again. But whenever I close my eyes, all I can see is—smoke, and the bombs, and the fighting. It won’t go away.” He took in a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t make it go away.”

Silence fell.

Aziraphale stared straight ahead. It would be nice, he thought, to just stay here and not move. Wait for the end. Whatever way this ended, at least it would _end_.

He saw the same hopelessness echoed in Crowley’s expression; the guilt and misery in Adam’s. And he made his choice.

“That’s understandable,” he said to Adam. “You’ve been through a lot.”

He tried to smile. Crowley was looking at him incredulously.

“We cannot stay here,” Aziraphale said. “Your father will come looking for you.”

“Where do you propose we go?” Crowley asked. “Come on, angel, that’s just cruel. Don’t go telling that boy we can outrun Satan himself.”

“We can. And we will,” Aziraphale said. He looked in Crowley’s eyes, imploring him to listen, to _hear him_. “We don’t have a choice.”

Adam poked the ground with a stick. The Hellhound – Dog, he was apparently called; he had tracked Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale all the way here, and was now licking his Master’s hand affectionately – wagged his tail.

“Where do you think we should go, then?” he asked dejectedly.

“Alpha Centauri,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not that far, all things considered.”

Crowley snorted. “Four bloody light-years, angel. Not a problem for you or me, but…”

“Not a problem for Adam, either,” Aziraphale said. He then turned towards the boy. “Do you think we could take them there?”

Adam stared at him. “What—leave Earth?” he looked around. “But—all those magazines—they _said _we should take care of this planet, because it’s our home. And we’re killing it. We can’t just go abandoning it now.”

“If we stay here, we burn along with it,” Aziraphale said.

Maybe they deserved it. The children didn’t, but he and Crowley… more or less obediently, they had played their part in bringing about the War. If there was any justice, they should stay here and die in it.

But he didn’t want to die. Not while there was still something to save.

Against all odds, Adam laughed.

“Yeah, why not,” he said. “I might as well believe _that_. Being on a different planet is no less weird than anything that has happened so far.”

“I think we are forgetting something important,” Crowley hissed. “That planet isn’t fit for human habitation. And we’re not leaving the kids behind.” He winced, realizing what he had just said. “Ugh. I’ve gone soft, haven’t I?”

“You haven’t changed, my dear,” Aziraphale said. Crowley glared at him. Unbothered, Aziraphale took his hand and ran his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. “Do you remember our first meeting?” he asked.

It took a moment for Crowley’s glare to ease, his expression turning incredulous. “You mean, what? The Garden?”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale said. He smiled at the memories. “I thought you were a bit odd at first, to be honest. But I am ever so glad you decided to talk to me.” From this close, he could see the yellow of Crowley’s eyes behind the sunglasses. “Why did you?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley admitted. “I was curious about the entire thing. Didn’t have anyone Below to talk to.”

Aziraphale stepped closer, close enough to rest his forehead against Crowley’s. If only he had known then what he knew now, he wouldn’t have wasted so much time.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he said. “For giving us a chance.”

“Yes, well,” Crowley said, swallowing nervously. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves yet, shall we? We still don’t know if this will work.” But he was strangely calm when he turned to Adam. “The angel and I will make sure that you have somewhere safe to transport them to,” he said. “And you will have to—use your reality-warping powers to get us there. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Adam said. “I guess so.”

“I’m glad we all have so much faith in this plan,” Crowley said. “All right—let’s gather up, then.”

They didn’t bother explaining it to the kids, for fear that they would start pointing out several rather glaringly obvious flaws. The Them would follow Adam, and Warlock and the rest would follow Crowley. That would have to suffice.

Aziraphale and Crowley laced their hands together. It helped to have him near; helped to _believe_, and they needed as much belief as they could muster. After a moment, they took Adam’s hands, too. The boy had to know he wasn’t alone, either.

Then Aziraphale closed his eyes tight and focused. Focused on the memories of the green, lush plants that bore perfect fruit, of flower petals dancing in the air, of animals coexisting in unnatural, perfect peace. He thought of tall walls separating the Garden from the unhospitable lands around it. A paradise, carefully constructed to cradle the first humans before they were ready to leave it forever.

And, when he opened his eyes, that was exactly what he saw.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some weird things happen in this chapter, for which I apologize in advance. Also, it was meant to be the last one, but I will need one more to wrap up some loose plot threads.
> 
> By the way, the title is from _Paradise Lost_, because I felt like being pretentious:
> 
> “Then wilt thou not be loath  
To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess  
A Paradise within thee, happier far.”

Every day in the Garden was perfect. Sky was clear and blue, fruits were always ripe, water in streams and ponds was clyster-clear, flowers were in bloom. Each night was beautiful and starry, the ever-present warm breeze chasing away the evening chill.

It might get dull after a while. For now, however, the children walked around in a daze, playing games and running around between the tall, lush trees. After the hellish landscape of Earth, Aziraphale couldn’t begrudge them whatever joy they could find.

Not all of the children gave in to it, however. In a small clearing near the outer rim of the garden, Pepper was swinging a tree branch, trying to find a way to break through Aziraphale’s defences. He was more than happy to indulge her; he was still on edge, and the exercise kept his mind sharp and focused. It was good for the girl, too, giving her an illusion of strength and control.

There was a new arrival. He slipped from between the trees, silent, and watched them intently for a few minutes.

“Nanny is looking for you,” Warlock said eventually.

Aziraphale lowered his practice sword. Pepper chose that moment to attack but he blocked her easily.

“What for?” Aziraphale asked.

“She didn’t say,” Warlock shrugged.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “I will have to go and find out for myself, shall I?”

Pepper swung the branch around, trying to contain her disappointment.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll look for Adam.”

And she was gone, her red T-shirt vanishing between the trees.

Aziraphale and Warlock moved in the other direction, towards the tall, impenetrable Wall that encircled the Garden. It stood above even the tallest trees and was almost perfectly smooth; a necessary precaution, after they found Brian trying to scale it _despite _their patient explanations that doing so will lead to his death.

Warlock was clearly thinking about something.

“Brother Francis?” he asked suddenly. “Can you teach me how to fight, too?”

Aziraphale froze. After all the trouble they went through, the children shouldn’t be playing at war. He certainly shouldn’t be encouraging Pepper. But even here, they weren’t safe. It would be naïve to think so.

“No,” he said. He tried to picture Warlock on the battlefield, facing off against demons, angels, fellow humans—and found himself shivering even despite the perfect temperature. “You shouldn’t have to learn,” he added, forcing a smile onto his lips.

Warlock looked at him sullenly. “You’re teaching Pepper,” he said.

_One is enough_, Aziraphale told himself. _It has to be_.

“I’m sorry, Warlock,” he said. “I’d rather not discuss this further.”

“Sure, whatever.” Warlock spun on his heel and stalked off.

Troubled, Aziraphale watched him go. Then he remembered that they had come here for a reason; he stretched out his wings and launched himself upwards, in the direction of the perfect blue sky, until he breached the upper border of the Wall and saw the planet for what it really was.

Unwelcoming, uneven rock, hewn through with deep craters and fantastical geological formations. Nothing lived here; nothing could. The sky was jet black, the closest star burning red above the horizon. Its glow lent a hellish gleam to the surface. The other two stars, Alpha Centauri A and B, were orbiting one another further away although they didn’t seem that much smaller than Proxima Centauri, which the planet revolved around.

It looked nothing like Earth. Only the sky beyond remained familiar.

They were close enough to the Solar System for the distance not to matter on a cosmic scale. Aziraphale recognized important constellations even if he never shared Crowley’s particular interest in the study of astronomy: Cassiopeia, where The Sun was barely visible, Orion, and others. But even then, without the light pollution, there were just _more _of them; Milky Way spilled across the sky, a white ribbon shaded with hues of blue, pink, orange, and green, dotted with shimmering pinpricks of light. Everywhere he looked, he could see the stars.

No wonder Crowley loved them so.

The demon was right there, sitting on the very edge of the Wall, one forearm resting on his knee, the other leg dangling two hundred feet above the planet’s rocky surface.

“I can’t get used to the sight,” Aziraphale said, approaching him slowly.

“Mmm,” said Crowley who, in turn, seemed rather captivated by the alien landscape. Aziraphale had to clear his throat to capture his attention.

“You were looking for me, dear?”

“Yeah. Didn’t want to spook the kids. But.” He looked up at Aziraphale, the red star reflected in his sunglasses. “It isn’t safe. The Garden is only as real as we believe it to be, and if something were to happen to us…”

Aziraphale sat down next to him, tucking his wings tight around himself so that he could be closer to Crowley without accidentally knocking him off the Wall.

“I’ve been thinking about that, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Perhaps there is something we could do. Create water. Oxygen. This is what you used to do as an angel, wasn’t it?”

Crowley sighed.

“_Stars_, angel. I worked on the _stars_.” He waved his hand in the direction of Proxima Centauri. “And they were _easy_. Just a bunch of hot gases and gravity… they practically made themselves. And in the end we only needed them to forge the heavier atoms.”

“But you know how to move matter around,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley scowled. “Not _that _kind of matter. Wasn’t my department. Although,” his voice was carefully neutral. “I read the plans and everything, before the guys started working on Earth. Ended up having too many questions for the Almighty’s taste.”

“Plans?” Aziraphale perked up.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Crowley hissed. “I can’t rebuild the Earth based on blueprints I’ve seen once over six thousand years ago.”

“Maybe you remember enough,” Aziraphale said. “I mean… how hard can it be? Water is just—hydrogen and oxygen, right?” He scrunched his forehead. “And life is just… structure. And the ability to make more of itself.”

Crowley leaned back, propped himself up on his elbows, and began to laugh.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said, with so much fondness in his voice it made Aziraphale’s heart beat a little faster. “I would need something more precise than that.”

He was half-lying now, and Aziraphale was looking down upon him: his gentle smile, the starry sky mirrored in his glasses, the red-brown hair framing his pale skin. Even as he closed his eyes, the image was imprinted beneath his eyelids, hopefully never to quite disappear.

But there were more important matters at hand. Quietly, Aziraphale said: “Heaven keeps extensive archives. Those blueprints could still be there.”

Crowley wasn’t laughing anymore. He pushed himself up to a sitting position to bring himself level with Aziraphale.

“You can’t go back there,” he said.

The worry in his voice was clear and obvious; Aziraphale found himself leaning closer, his forehead resting against Crowley’s. For a long time, he couldn’t quite understand what it was he was feeling, and why it filled him with such fragile, tender warmth. But then he realized: they were here, together, and safe. It was a small moment compared to what had happened in the past and what might happen in the future, but he wanted to preserve it forever.

“Believe me, my dear, that I would much rather stay here,” Aziraphale said. “With you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley mumbled, colour rising in his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “This plan of yours? It’s insane. I hope you know that.”

“I do,” Aziraphale sighed. “But do you have a better one?”

Reluctantly, Crowley said, “No. I do not.”

Aziraphale smiled. “So it’s decided, then.”

Crowley pulled back. He had probably meant to look cool and unaffected, but the curve of his brows and lips betrayed all sorts of feelings: vulnerability, anxiety, fear. It was a shame his eyes remained covered.

“Don’t worry about me,” Aziraphale said gently.

“Oh, sure, I’m not going to worry,” Crowley said. “It’s just _Heaven_. Nothing bad ever happens in Heaven to traitors and deserters, right? ‘Cause your lot is so bloody merciful—”

Without warning, Aziraphale leaned over and pressed his lips to Crowley’s. It was a brief gesture, a ghost of a kiss, but it threw Crowley off. He stared at Aziraphale, wide-eyed and helpless, all his protestations forgotten.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” Aziraphale whispered.

He stood up and stretched out his wings. Then he closed his eyes to the rocky landscape and starry skies of this planet, and opened them to the London Underground.

It looked _worse _than he remembered. Nothing but debris and the dust hanging in the air. Visibility faded after a couple of metres. Ideal conditions to get himself ambushed by demons, Aziraphale thought.

He moved quickly, trying to find an open patch of sky, and shot upwards, his wings carrying him high, above the smoke and clouds. Most of the Gates had to be closed to prevent anyone from sneaking in to Heaven, but the entrance was still there for those who knew where to find it.

_Heaven_.

The bright lights and endless corridors disoriented him, which was just ridiculous. This had been his home, once. Now, however, he was finding it hard to put himself on the right path to the Archives. There wasn’t anyone to ask, either. The angels who used to walk these halls were either busy fighting or already dead.

The Archives, once he found them, stretched into every direction, all the way to infinity or a close approximation thereof. All angels were required to submit regular reports and there used to be ten million of them before the war began. Someone, somewhere, kept count of the victims of both sides, but Aziraphale had no idea who or where they were.

He ventured deep between the identical shelves. It felt good to be amongst books again; for the first time since reaching Heaven, Aziraphale felt at home. And it didn’t take him long to figure out the shelving system and determine the rough location of the appropriate section. He supposed all that time poking around human libraries paid off.

He didn’t know how long it took (time being a somewhat fiddly concept here) but he found them in the end. Smooth white tablets that hadn’t been in use ever since the world began. For the briefest moment, he considered the expanse of angelic history held before him. Crowley must have been mentioned somewhere. His old name _had _to have been recorded. But it would be a violation of his privacy and absolutely useless to the both of them at this point.

Aziraphale pocketed what he hoped were the right tablets and hurried out of the Archives.

As he left, he noticed other things. The wide windows now showed strategic maps laid over smoking ruins of Earth. The gently spinning globe was barely recognizable. It gave him a pause, drawing his gaze to what used to be greenery, oceans, human cities; but then he forced his legs to move, as inconspicuously as possible.

He was headed for the Gates when an unfamiliar angel intercepted him.

“Principality Aziraphale,” she said. “Your presence is requested.”

Aziraphale lied smoothly: “I am aware. As you can see, I am on my way.”

The angel seemed bewildered.

“Archangel Gabriel is that way,” she said, pointing to the direction opposite to where Aziraphale was heading.

“I _know_,” Aziraphale said. “I will get there as soon as—”

“You will go now.”

It wasn’t a minor angel anymore. It was Uriel, flanked by two uniformed warriors. Aziraphale had no choice but to obey. He smoothed his coat as he did, hoping the tablets remained concealed beneath. Luckily, the other angels were used to him being nervous, so they thought nothing of the awkward gesture.

Archangel Gabriel had indeed been waiting for him. He dismissed their audience until the two of them were alone in his pristine white office. Nothing but his massive desk separated them, overloaded with stacks of papers.

Aziraphale forced himself to meet Gabriel’s purple eyes, and flinched at what he saw there.

“Where have you been?” Gabriel demanded.

“London,” Aziraphale said. “I was looking for—”

“I _know _what you were looking for.” The tightly-laced fury in the Archangel’s voice frightened him. Aziraphale had never seen Gabriel’s wrath; he hadn’t known Gabriel was even capable of it.

From the tower of papers, Gabriel retrieved a single sheet. He put it on the desk before him and slid it forward.

“Explain.”

Aziraphale forced his gaze away from his superior’s face and glanced down. It turned out to be a picture; he hadn’t even known Heaven collected those. But it showed him and Crowley, sitting side-by-side on the skeletal remains of the London Shard.

He was holding Crowley’s hand. He was kissing it.

It didn’t get more incriminating than that.

“I didn’t want to believe them when they told me,” Gabriel said. Beneath the layer of anger, Aziraphale was shocked to hear genuine remorse; it awoke the guilt he thought had been buried ages ago. “I couldn’t believe you’d betray us until I had the evidence right before me.”

As he reached for the picture, Gabriel slammed his hand on top of it. He was still waiting for an explanation; Aziraphale didn’t know if he had one.

“What do you want me to say?” Aziraphale said quietly. “I’ve known him for six thousand years. The War isn’t going to change that.”

Gabriel’s hand curled into a fist, crumpling the picture beyond recognition. The only reason he didn’t reply, Aziraphale suspected, was because he would start screaming the moment he opened his mouth.

“This won’t happen again,” Aziraphale said with absolute conviction.

It _wouldn’t_. Never again would he be made to feel guilty about his relationship with Crowley. But he suspected this wasn’t what Gabriel wanted to hear.

After a tense silence, Gabriel said: “You will report to Sandalphon and serve out under his command. Is that clear?”

It was as obvious _I don’t want to see you again_ as Aziraphale expected to hear.

“Yes,” he said.

“And, Aziraphale?” Gabriel said, with perfect clarity. “If I ever see that demon, I will personally dispose of him.”

Everything he felt in that moment had to show on his face. Aziraphale forced his thoughts in other direction: Gabriel probably thought it was a kindness. He could pretend to be grateful.

“He won’t tempt you again,” Gabriel added, confirming his suspicions.

The words tasted vile on his tongue, and Aziraphale hated himself for saying them, but it could placate Gabriel if nothing else would: “Thank you.”

He was dismissed, then. He left Gabriel’s office, mind on fire.

He didn’t breathe easier until he was back in the Alpha Centauri system.

***

By the time Crowley found him, Aziraphale managed to get his nerves under control. He was even able to smile, even despite the dread clawing at his heart.

“There you go,” he said, handing over the tablets.

Crowley took them, incredulous. Then he gaped as he started scrolling through.

“Angel, this one has a _billion_ pages—”

“Then I hope you can read fast, my dear,” Aziraphale said, patting his shoulder. “I shall see to the children for now.”

He couldn’t bear to look at Crowley. Not yet. Not until he could learn to believe they might be safe.

For now, he stayed under the illusion of safety the Garden provided. Crowley joined him shortly afterwards, complaining all the while about Heaven, God, and every single angel to have ever been created. But he read the texts.

One day, Aziraphale followed him outside of the Garden, across the ravines and trenches of the dead planet. Crowley stood beneath the starry sky, his hands cupped together, and squinted at the tablet Aziraphale was obediently holding before him.

Aziraphale didn’t fully understand how Crowley did what he did, but he could see the results: droplets of water that filled in the dip between his palms, and then froze immediately.

“Shit shit _shit_,” Crowley said. He breathed on the ice and melted it, shaking it off his hands. “Let’s go somewhere warmer first, hmm?”

The flew to where the star shone directly above them. Crowley repeated the experiment, this time with better results.

“Okay, good,” he said. “Flip to that other page, will you?”

Aziraphale did so.

It was the atmosphere next: layers of gases that blanketed the planet. They would catch most of the radiation and meteorites that had, until this point, bombarded the surface. And it had another effect: before Aziraphale’s very eyes, the black sky turned a soft blue colour. He could no longer see the stars, save for the three that composed the Alpha Centauri system.

“Oh,” he said.

“Don’t look so happy, angel,” Crowley said, stretching out his wings. “We’re not done yet.”

And they weren’t, not for weeks. They needed more water to fill in the valleys and trenches. Enough to cover most of the planet’s surface with vast oceans, barren and empty though they remained.

But there was air now. There was wind, and sounds, and Aziraphale stood atop the Garden’s walls and beamed at Crowley as the breeze ruffled their wings.

“Look,” Crowley said, with poorly masked delight.

Storm clouds were gathering nearby.

“Did you do this?” Aziraphale asked, with naked wonder in his voice.

“Nope,” Crowley said. “It’s just physics doing their thing.”

Wind blew the clouds in their direction. First droplets hit the desert that now surrounded the Garden; then they scattered on the stone by their feet and the palms of their outstretched hands. The air took on that particular scent that he remembered all too well from the foggy, rainy days in London.

The storm was getting worse. Aziraphale extended his left wing and curled it protectively around Crowley, shielding him from the rain.

***

Life was the trickiest part. Crowley spent several long weeks before he got it right, and they were simple things at first: single-cell organisms to populate the oceans, pump oxygen into the atmosphere and convert carbon dioxide into biomass. After that were the herbivores and predators that fed on them, kept in check by the amount of available food and their own territorial wars. It was a fragile ecosystem to build from the grounds up, and Crowley did a lot of angry cursing while his attempts failed, one after the other.

Aziraphale didn’t even pretend to understand what he was doing. But he followed Crowley nevertheless, until the kids started to grow anxious because they never got to see them anymore.

“My apologies,” Aziraphale told Adam and the Them, flying back to the Garden. “Crowley and I have an important project we are working on. What have you four been up to?”

They exchanged glances. Adam was the one who spoke up, as usual.

“We were wondering,” he said. “If there are more human survivors on Earth, we could bring them here.”

“We should,” Brian said, nodding. “There’s still plenty of room.”

Aziraphale thought of going back to Earth and all the danger that would entail. Adam couldn’t risk confronting his demonic father again; Aziraphale didn’t want to chance running into Sandalphon or any of the others, after having so blatantly ignored an Archangel’s orders. And, of course, both of them would be killed on sight if they were caught by their respective opposite sides.

“It’s dangerous,” he pointed out, unnecessarily.

“Yes, of _course _it is!”

“_You _are not afraid, are you?” Pepper narrowed her eyes.

Aziraphale looked at her. “I am. Very much so,” he said.

“But you’ll do it?”

Aziraphale sighed. He hated to be lectured by a group of children, but, well. They did have the moral obligation to save as many as they could, after establishing a relatively safe hideout over here.

It was a big universe, he reasoned; with any luck, no one would find them here for years to come.

“Yes,” he said. “I rather think we should. However—” he raised his hand to cut off the wild chattering. “It will be me and Adam, and we still need to discuss it with Crowley beforehand.”

***

Although Crowley wasn’t happy with the idea, he relented very quickly.

It took several trips, often fruitless. Not all of the humans they had found were willing to believe their outlandish story and follow an angel and the Antichrist to a different planet.

Aziraphale returned from one such trip covered in dust, the horrifying images still fresh in his memory. He deposited the handful of people – a mother with two children, an elderly man, and a teenager – within the walls of the Garden, and went to find Crowley.

Crowley, who was busy burying the skeletal remains of a giant animal Aziraphale was pretty sure had never existed.

“What’s this about?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley waved his hand vaguely. “Something for potential future palaeontologists to argue about.”

After a pause, Aziraphale said: “I see you’re having fun.”

His voice must have betrayed him, because Crowley turned at once, his work forgotten. The demon’s self-satisfied smirk slipped off when he noticed the layer of dust and the blood splattered on Aziraphale’s armour.

“Did you run into trouble?” Crowley asked, frowning. “Damn it, angel. I should have come with you—”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “It’s alright. I’m glad you didn’t.”

He held Crowley’s shoulder and let his eyes close. For a long moment, he basked in the warmth of Crowley’s presence.

“Here,” Crowley said, with a gentle tug at Aziraphale’s arm. He ran his hand over fabric and metal, wishing the stains away. Once he was done, they were as good as new.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley looked as if he was about to say something else, but changed his mind. “Come on, let’s see if the kids left any apples in the Garden.”

Aziraphale refrained from pointing out that there were, in fact, always apples in the Garden: crisp and perfect and a glossy red colour, the kind you seldom got in real life. Still. He wouldn’t mind biting into one; it was always nice to feel them crumble between his teeth, their sweet juice filling his mouth.

They flew back and gathered a handful of apples. As they were making their way back to the Wall, Warlock caught up with them.

“Hey,” he said.

Something was troubling the boy. It seemed that whenever they saw him these days, he had been sullen and angry.

“Are you going outside? Can I come?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged glances.

“It—should be safe,” Crowley said, frowning. “I hope.”

“Great!” Warlock ran ahead of them, more excited than Aziraphale had seen him in a very long time.

He came to a stop before the tall, smooth barrier of the Wall. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a ladder appeared. Warlock grinned at him above his shoulder and began to climb.

They got to the top before he did, and got to see the look on his face. In truth, there wasn’t much to see: Crowley had carried out most of his experiments away from the Garden, in case something went horribly wrong. But after so long trapped between the walls, the endless stretch of the horizon was enough to take Warlock’s breath away.

“Wicked!” he said. He came dangerously close to the edge of the Wall and Aziraphale had to resist the urge to pull him back. “So, what do you guys do up here? Sit and watch the sunset?”

“You can’t see the sunset from here,” Crowley said. He tossed an apple at Warlock, who caught it easily. “Planet’s tidally locked.”

“It’s what now?”

“It rotates around its own axis at the same rate as it revolves around the star,” Crowley explained. “That side is permanently exposed to the star. Like the Moon is towards the Earth.”

Warlock was staring at him suspiciously. “Really?”

This was also why it was a bit too warm here for anything other than the desert to exist, Aziraphale realized. Even so, it never got much brighter than twilight on Earth.

They sat together, all three of them. If Warlock toppled over the Wall, they could easily catch him.

“So how long have we been here?”

“Local time?” Crowley said. “Uh… one hundred sixty three years.”

Warlock very _nearly _fell off the Wall then. Aziraphale caught him just in case. “One _hundred _sixty years?”

“Or one hundred sixty days,” Crowley said. “They’re the same thing, I just explained.”

Warlock still seemed dubious. “And, uh, normal time?”

“About five years on Earth,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh.” After a long pause, Warlock said: “And the War is _still _going on?”

Aziraphale winced. “Yes, I’m afraid. It doesn’t seem like they will want to stop any time soon.”

“So who’s winning?”

“Who even caresss?” Crowley hissed.

Warlock wasn’t put off by the hissing, it seemed.

“I thought you guys did,” the boy said.

“Warlock,” Aziraphale said gently. “If it was safe to go back to Earth, we would have taken you there by now. This place isn’t meant to be a prison.”

Warlock glared.

“It’s not just that,” he said. “I mean, sure. Uh. It beats hiding in those stinky tunnels, I guess.” The anger he had been trying to contain came bubbling to the surface. “I just don’t get why we always have to do what Adam says!” He kicked the heels of his feet against the Wall. “What’s so great about Adam, anyway? He’s the reason we’re in this mess in the first place!”

Oh. Oh, this wasn’t good at all.

“Don’t say that, please,” Aziraphale said. “Adam was a child.”

“And he was going against the Devil,” Crowley added grimly. “He didn’t stand a chance.”

“Besides,” Aziraphale smiled. “Adam is a very nice young man. He has a lot of fine qualities. I’m sure you’d appreciate them if you got to know him better.”

Warlock pressed his mouth into a tight line. “Wow. Yeah. Sure. Why don’t I sign up for his bloody fanclub, like everyone else?”

He climbed to his feet. Then he gripped the uneaten apple Crowley had given him, threw his arm back, and tossed it in a high arch far, far away into the sand.

“I’ll go do that now,” Warlock said sullenly. “See you.”

Aziraphale moved to stop him but Crowley grabbed his sleeve.

“Don’t,” he said. “He’s sixteen, isn’t he? Teenagers are supposed to be temperamental.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale said.

After six thousand years, humans could still be terribly confusing. It was one of the reasons why he loved them so, true, but something about the situation bothered him still.

***

Warlock mellowed out in the following days. He had even, to Aziraphale’s honest surprise, tried to befriend Adam.

He was, perhaps for the very first time, struck by how much time had passed, and how much the kids had grown in that time. The children he healed in the tunnels were now on the cusp of adulthood. Adam was indeed growing into a fine leader, his infernal powers only adding to the natural charisma and good looks. But he never sought to abuse his influence; Aziraphale and Crowley watched him more closely than the others. To their immense relief, he wasn’t displaying the pride, arrogance, or selfishness that had doomed his father and all that who had followed him.

There were issues, of course, especially once the other survivors began to show up. Not all of them spoke English; cultural misunderstandings were bound to arise. But, barring minor skirmishes, Adam managed to sort them out, and Aziraphale and Crowley very rarely had to intervene.

For a year, there was peace.

Then Warlock disappeared.

***

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Crowley asked flatly.

“They left,” Pepper said. Her voice was cold, furious. “Warlock, and some of the others. While you two were off on the other side of the planet.”

“Pepper,” Aziraphale said quietly.

The girl’s expression changed.

“Look—sorry. I’m sorry. But they’ve been saying horrible things about Adam behind his back!” She stared him in the eyes. “Did you want me to stop them? I could have had, but—”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No, you shouldn’t have had.”

She was biting her lip.

“It wasn’t that long ago,” she said. “And we _tried_, okay? We tried to reason with them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Which way?” Aziraphale asked.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

She quickly ascended the steps of the ladder that Aziraphale had never bothered to remove. A long rope had been tied to the topmost step, woven from vines and reeds that they must have found growing in the Garden. Its other end was hanging from the outer rim of the Wall, a foot or so above the sand.

It was quite windy here, the sand dunes ever in motion. The trail of footsteps was barely visible, leading around the Garden, and then away – towards the twilight zone, as Crowley referred to it, where the climate was mildest and the planet at its most hospitable.

Crowley was already flying. Aziraphale extended his wings and followed him, wind rushing in his ears.

They had expected to be followed, Aziraphale realized. There were canyons and ravines nearby that would protect them from aerial surveillance; Crowley had personally pointed them out to Warlock one day. And now the boy was hiding from them—_why_?

“Crowley,” he shouted, catching up to the demon. Mid-flight, he brushed the tips of Crowley’s primaries with his fingers; the touch might have escaped his attention, but the change in the air current and the whooshing sound of Aziraphale’s wings did not.

Now that they had slowed down, Aziraphale closed his eyes and concentrated. Love, he did not expect to feel; except for the background warmth of Crowley’s affection and the strength of the belief permeating every inch of the Garden. But fear—fear was a new emotion on this planet. It struck out like a thorn, cold and sharp. And he had had unfortunately too much practice detecting it after digging through the debris to search for human survivors in past years.

Its source was nearby. They dropped down, to the winding trenches and ravines. The air was stale but colder; there were streams running through, carrying fresh water, and some vegetation and animal life already creeping in.

They weren’t trying to surprise the fugitives. And they _had_ been here, very recently; despite several days’ worth of advantage, an angel and a demon flew much faster than humans might travel on foot.

There were footprints in the mud around the riverbed. They followed at a slow pace, until, finally, they heard them.

“Warlock?” Crowley called out.

It felt like forever before the boy emerged from the cave. But he _was _there; alive. Well. And very, very angry.

“Where have you been, Warlock?” Aziraphale asked gently.

Warlock bit his lip and said nothing.

“Listen—”

“No,” Warlock said. “You listen. I’m done. I’m leaving.” He cast a long, contemptuous look at the both of them. “And you can’t stop me.”

This was a feeble lie, and they all knew it; even more tragic that Warlock felt the need to say it out loud.

“Why?” Aziraphale asked.

“What do you care?” Warlock said, his tone cold. “You _never _cared. Not really.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Crowley asked with barely concealed rage. “Everything we’ve done here, we’ve done for you!”

“Now I expect you want me to be grateful,” Warlock said.

“We _never _expected that—”

“I know you didn’t!” Warlock shouted. Gradually, his voice softened. “I—I know, okay? You’re—kind. You saved all of our lives. But you never cared about anyone that isn’t Adam, or Pepper. And we were just—sick of it.”

Aziraphale was staring at him, baffled beyond belief.

“I—what?” he asked. “What do you mean? Adam is—”

“Oh, sure. _Adam_,” Warlock said, vicious again. “I tried to befriend him, like you suggested. Turns out we have a lot in common, he and I! Same birthday. Same birthplace.”

It dawned on Aziraphale. It dawned on Crowley, too, because he cursed under his breath.

“Look, we made a dumb mistake—”

“_Fuck you_,” Warlock snarled. “And your _fucking _mistakes.”

His voice hitched; tears came rolling down his face. He wiped at them furiously, anger and sorrow in equal measure, exacerbated by the fact that he couldn’t stop crying.

“Must have been hard for you, when you realized I was the wrong child,” Warlock said. “Really. A bloody inconvenience, wasn’t it? That I couldn’t do what you wanted me to do?” he gulped in a breath, words barely coming out right. “Well, guess what? Adam couldn’t, either. We have _that_ in common, too.”

“Warlock,” Aziraphale said. “No. Please. It wasn’t your fault. Or Adam’s. _We _failed—Heaven and Hell—”

But the boy wasn’t listening to him.

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged helpless glances. _Why _did it even matter? _Why _did Warlock care as much as he did?

“What about the others?” Crowley asked. “Why did they leave with you?”

Warlock managed to get his crying under control, and spoke in a remarkably even tone. “Various reasons. They were scared, or curious, or sick of sitting in one place, or—”

“Sick of us,” Crowley said coldly. “Yes. You’ve said.” Aziraphale didn’t like the tone of his voice. “They will resent you for this, Warlock. When they get cold, and sick, and hungry. Even if you survive out here, it won’t be easy, and they will end up blaming you for it.”

“I didn’t make them do anything,” Warlock said.

“I know,” Crowley’s tone softened. “But it won’t matter.”

“You can always come back,” Aziraphale said. Loudly, so that he would be heard even in the furthest shadows, where the rest of them were hiding. “At any time. You will always be welcome.”

Crowley and Warlock were still staring at one another. There was so much hurt and anger between the two; Aziraphale laid a gentle hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They didn’t go back to the Garden. Crowley flew first, beating his wings wildly as if he wanted the physical pain to override every thought in his head. He probably did. Aziraphale could barely keep up, especially once they crossed through the twilight zone, heading towards the endless night.

It was cold and dark here; further on, icebergs were drifting upon the restless ocean, that gradually solidified into glaciers. But there was life here nonetheless; the plankton drifting with the currents between both sides of the planet, and all the marine organisms it fed. There were the hydrothermal vents deep beneath the surface, supporting creatures that had no need for sunlight. There was the gentle glow of bioluminescence within the ocean, and the magnificent, colourful veils of the aurora borealis dancing across the starry sky.

Crowley’s strength finally gave out. He landed in the snow, on the rare patch of land amidst the ocean, immediately dropping to his knees.

“We’re so stupid, angel,” he said, staring off into space.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, falling a few feet behind him. “I rather think we are.”

They were just children, after all. They were human children, and they needed more than he or Crowley ever understood or knew how to provide.

“We should have tried to teach them something,” Aziraphale said.

“Like what?” Crowley asked.

After a moment’s thought, Aziraphale suggested: “Be kind to one another?”

“Yeah,” Crowley scoffed. “Because that worked out so damn well the last time.”

Snow crunched beneath his feet as he approached Crowley and knelt before him. Gently, he brushed away the long locks of red hair that Crowley now sported and cradled his face between his hands. If it weren’t for the sunglasses, he might be able to judge Crowley’s mood more accurately.

“He’s a teenager,” Aziraphale said. “Rebellion is customary at his age, you’ve said so yourself. He may yet forgive us.”

Crowley didn’t pull away from his embrace, although Aziraphale suspected a large part of him wanted to.

He didn’t state the obvious: that Warlock loved Crowley, and was hurt and jealous by what he perceived as Crowley’s indifference. He didn’t say that Crowley was capable of loving him back; that he was worthy of forgiveness.

Perhaps he should have had. He just couldn’t find the right words.


End file.
